Not an order.
A start.
So I do.
Sophie helps me sort clothes from the boxes while August finishes breakfast on the bed. Whiskey leaves to handle whatever Whiskey handles. Derby stays in the hall unless we hand him something. He takes each bag or box without comment, except once when I give him the one with my mother’s things and his hands slow.
“Careful with this one,” I say.
He nods. “I know.”
Not I will be.
I know.
As if he understands some boxes carry more dead people than paper.
Sophie finds my jeans from yesterday and a clean top balled in the corner of a bag. I change in the bathroom, keeping the door locked even though no one tries to open it. My clothes smell like road and fear, but they are mine. I tie my shoes. Wash my face. Stare at myself in the mirror.
I look awful.
Swollen eyes. Pale lips. Hair impossible. A bruise just visible near the collar of my shirt if I move wrong.
But I’m upright.
I brush my fingers under my eyes, smooth my hair as best I can, and lift my chin at the woman in the mirror.
There she is.
Not pretty today.
Not polished enough.
But present.
That has to count too.
When I step back into the room, Derby is waiting near the stairs with two bags in one hand and August’s dinosaur bag in the other. August has decided Derby is responsible for Blue Rex’s transportation and has given him very specific instructions.
“Don’t squish his neck.”
Derby looks down at the bag. “Kid, I have carried guns, cash, injured men, stolen trophies, and one drunk prospect who vomited in my saddlebag. I can handle a dinosaur.”
August frowns. “Blue Rex is not stolen.”
“Good for him.”
“Or drunk.”
“Even better.”
Sophie touches my arm. “Ready?”
No.
“Yes.”
We go downstairs.